


i got a river for a soul

by rvd



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Politics, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-13
Updated: 2015-08-13
Packaged: 2018-04-14 13:58:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4567134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rvd/pseuds/rvd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s the end of Spring 2023, just edging into summer, when Varric’s pulled back into politics. He thought he had left that life behind him, but that goes to show what he thinks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i got a river for a soul

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tetrahedron](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tetrahedron/gifts).



> For tetrahedron!! I really hope you like this! I took "politics AU" and ran with it, so I hope this doesn't disappoint.

It’s the end of Spring 2023, just edging into summer, when Varric’s pulled back into politics. He thought he had left that life behind him, but that goes to show what he thinks.

He’s just coming back from the jail, his investigators in tow, when he spots Cassandra Pentaghast standing, back straight as a board, near the entrance of their offices. He met her once, in New Orleans a couple years back. She looks the same down to the pant suit. He’s kept tabs on her so he knows she’s part Iona Lavellan’s inner circle, but he’d have to live under a rock to miss that Senator Lavellan is about to announce her bid for the presidency.

He waves his investigators on. “Cassandra,” he says, “It’s been years. Here I thought you’d forgotten about me.”

“I am not here for pleasantries,” she says immediately. Ah, definitely the same Cassandra Pentaghast. “I would prefer to speak inside, if you don’t mind.” Out of her mouth “if you don’t mind” comes across as “immediately, and I don’t care what your opinion is on the subject.”

He leads her in. Most people are taller than him, but Cassandra towers over him. Maybe? —But no, she’s in flats. Varric holds the door to his office open for her, conscious of the piles of paper on every available surface. He’s hoping it’ll scare her away. Whether anything could actually scare Cassandra Pentaghast is up for debate, but Varric believes in a positive outlook.

“I assume you know that I work for Senator Lavellan,” Cassandra starts.

Before she can go on, Varric says, “I mean this in the nicest way possible,” he pauses, “Actually, I don’t. If you need legal counsel, hire your family’s law firm.”

Her expression grows even stormier. 1—0, Tethras. “We _have_ legal counsel, that’s not why I’m here. I—Ugh, Iona needs a speech writer, someone competent.”

“What happened to the other guy?” He gives her the stink eye. “She didn’t have you kill him off did she? Now _that’s_ scandal, but look at your shoulders! A strong swing from—”

“Enough! She is running for president,” Cassandra says firmly. Everyone in the United States of America knows that Iona Lavellan is running, but it’s another thing to hear it confirmed from the mouth of her COO. “He was not good enough, you are.”

“Look,” he says. He fiddles with the edge of his sleeves where they’re rolled up to his elbows, his suit jacket resting behind him on the back of his chair. “I left politics. Get someone else.”

“Varric,” Cassandra’s saying, but he doesn’t want to listen. The fan whirs behind him, his office is always stuffy in the heat and humidity of DC summers. He knows there’s worse to come. It’s been two years, and he’s not used to it yet. “We,” she makes a slight sound of disgust, “ _need_ you on this campaign, much as I hate to admit it.”

And apparently that’s all it ever takes.

—

Varric tries to finish up the cases he can in the few days he has left, and gives the ones he can’t to the the older lawyers who’ve been working the public defense circuit about as long as he has. It’s the second time he’s bailed on clients and a career he loves and is passionate about, and for what, he doesn’t even know.

Hawke, he could understand. She was larger than life. But hell, he’s always been a sucker for beautiful women.

He’s shocked at the debris that accumulated in his office over the course of only two years. A lot of it is case files, various reference books, and a lot of useless shit if he’s being honest. There are two framed photos on his desk: the first is one from his and Bianca’s wedding of them grinning at the camera, obnoxiously in love, one of the happiest days of his life; the second is a candid shot of him and Hawke during that first, unstoppable mayoral campaign, hunkered over a table in Varric’s basement, heads bowed together and hints of smiles on both of their mostly hidden faces. Everything from those days has a rosy tinge in his memory.

He puts them both gently into the half full box of things he’s actually decided to keep.

—

Varric shows up bright and early Monday morning to the nicely lit, expensive office in Georgetown serving as the Lavellan campaign’s headquarters.

He’s still taking it in when Cassandra calls his name sharply across the room. She’s already walking with purpose past him, and it’s all Varric can do to go along for the ride.

“You’re scaring the interns,” he tells her. “Unless, no you’re right, they work with you on a daily basis, they’re used to this.”

She stops suddenly, and for a second he actually thinks he’s going to get his face bashed in on the first day of his new job. “This is your office,” Cassandra tells him. She shoves a file folder into his chest that he barely manages to juggle his coffee around to grab.

“Hey, easy on the goods—” he protests, as Cassandra speaks over him, “The Senator will be announcing her candidacy in mid-May, at the George Washington University commencement. You will want to talk to Iona herself, Leliana Nightingale our communications chief, and Josephine Montilyet and Vivienne Lerond, our campaign managers.”

“Mid- _May_?” he repeats. “That’s less than a month away!” He’s done more with less time, but he’s never worked on a presidential campaign before. He needs to do _research_. This needs to be a speech people quote in one hundred years. There are endless speeches immediately _after_ Lavellan announces her presidency that he has to write.

And he has a month.

Cassandra scoffs, “As if you’re not capable.”

—

A month later they go out drinking to commemorate Lavellan officially announcing her candidacy. Varric thinks Josephine even rented out the bar, which is already a step up from drinking alone at the bar a block from his house.

Varric ends up at a booth with three directors of something or other, research, polling, and technology maybe?

“So,” Dorian says, twirling his mustache. “I’ll buy you a drink if you say whether it _was_ Hawke who made Marlowe Dumar cry on national television.”

“Let’s cut to the chase,” the Iron Bull says, “Did Hawke really kill her sister? I’ve heard Aveline Vallen can cover anything up.”

“Fuck that,” Sera exclaims, slamming her beer onto the table, “Did she really fuck, you know, _whatshisface_ —Ferns, in the White House,and then the President _walked in_ on them?”

“Yes, that!” Dorian says. “That! Is that true?”

“Well,” Varric says drawing it out, reveling in the way the three of them lean closer, “she definitely didn’t fuck a fern, and it was _definitely_ the President.”

—

Varric chews the cap of his pen. He rubs his stubble. He turns the paper upside down. He sighs.

The door creaks open, and he doesn’t bother to look up before asking, “Is this too heavy handed? ‘For me, this race is about the American people, not myself or my fellow candidate’—of course it is, we’re already pushing the average American angle.” He groans, frustrated.

“You know, if you’re going to insult the other candidate why not go for that terrible carrot top,” Hawke tells him. “He’s making himself an easy target being a ginger.”

Varric looks up, stunned, half convinced his ears are playing tricks on him, but there she is. He knows she’s been doing volunteer work around the world, but he sees it in her face too. Hawke’s tanner, her hair is shorter, her laugh lines more prominent, but mostly he notices she looks happier, more relaxed than he’s seen her in years.

“Hawke,” he says, or breathes, or maybe chokes.

“You’re the president’s director of speechwriting, I _know_ you haven’t lost your talent just yet.”

“I’m not—she’s not president yet, Cory’s a tough opponent, he isn’t going to roll over like Dumar.” But, “Hawke, what are you _doing_ here?”

She’s still leaning in the doorway to his office, and she gives him the tight, dangerous smile he’s seen her flash a million times. “I can’t visit an old friend?”

—

“She wants you to _what_?” Cassandra’s an intimidating woman, he can’t say he hasn’t lost a bit of his nerve.

“Hawke wants me join her campaign,” Varric repeats. There’s a moment of perfect silence. “She’s running for Congress—”

“You spineless coward!” Cassandra explodes.

“Hey, fuck you,” he ducks to avoid a flying shoe, “I’m not leaving Lavellan’s campaign—watch the _face_ —”

“I should have known all along this was going to happen!” She throws a paperweight where his shoulder was moments before.

“I’m on your _side,_ ” he tries to explain, “I’m not _leaving_.”

Cassandra scoffs in disgust. “We all know what side you’re on, Varric, and it’s not Lavellan’s.”

—

Varric and Hawke used to take a six pack and sit on the waterfront just to get away from it for a bit, back in New Orleans. He starts heading home, before changing his mind and heading to the address in Northeast Hawke texted him earlier. DC has a waterfront too, may as well use it.

Varric texts her his plans in line at Whole Foods with a six pack of the hipster brew Hawke will never admit to liking. Hawke’ll drink anything, but he’s seen her fridge.

Hawke looks surprised when he pulls up, but he’s surprised to see her already waiting outside. It reminds him more of the early days, when she still lived with her family, and more than just two Hawkes were, to put it bluntly, alive.

“You have the same car,” Hawke says as she gets into the passenger seat.

“I wasn’t just going to _leave_ her,” Varric says, offended.

“I’ve seen how you treat her, I didn’t think she would last this long.”

Varric chuckles. “You’re right, the way I normally _treat_ women, they don’t last very long at all,” he says with as much innuendo as he can put into the words.

“Sorry—which of us has even gone _near_ a woman in the past ten years? Just me? That’s what I thought.”

“You got me, you got me,” he allows.

They hit traffic along Whitehaven Parkway, but when _don’t_ they, and end up on a more secluded part of the waterfront. It’s late enough that the kayak rental has closed for the day and probably won’t mind two mostly respectable citizens sharing a drink on their dock.

They’re mostly silent for a while, as they go through their first beers.

“We weren’t going to ask you, you know,” Hawke says suddenly.

“Ask me…?”

Hawke huffs impatiently. “To join my campaign.” She takes an aggressive gulp of her second beer. Man, he wishes either of them were drunk.

“Why not?” he asks. “You had to know I’d join you.”

“That’s exactly it!” she explodes, waving the bottle around. “You’re on a Presidential campaign, and I know you’re gaining a lot of respect, and you enjoy it.”

“Hawke.” He’s oddly touched. “Have you been keeping tabs on me?”

“Ugh,” Hawke groans. “That’s not the _point_. The point _is_ that I know you’ve been doing well, and we wouldn’t, I wouldn’t take you away from that. If I didn’t need you.”

“Wait,” Varric’s finally catching on here, amused to hell and back. “Hawke, did you pregame this?”

She pauses. “ _That_ ’s not the point.”

“You were planning this,” he surmises, grinning.

Hawke scowls. “If you’re so amused.”

Varric laughs. “I appreciate the thought, Hawke, but hell, you know once I get my teeth in something I don’t let go. You’re stuck with me.”

Hawke finishes her second beer, and he assumes they’re going onto the portion of the night where they pretend this conversation never happened.

He lets the silence go on a bit longer, nursing his beer. “How’s the brother?” Varric asks.

Hawke waves her hand. “You know. Same old, same old.”

“So, same old annoying shit then?”

“You hit the nail on the head, there. Classic younger brother,” Hawke says sweetly.

“I’m hurt,” Varric says clutching his heart, “frankly, that you would compare me to your _brother_.”

Hawke caves, quicker than he thought she would, “Alright, yeah, more than a little weird.”

“I didn’t even get into all the times I’ve held your hair while you barfed, or that time where you fucked that guy in the room next to me—”

“Yup, yeah, still thinking about Carver so _any_ time you want to shut up.”

He’s still moaning obnoxiously when she pushes him into the Potomac.

—

“I took _both_ of your phones and your wallet out of your pockets before pushing you in, I don’t see why you’re upset.”

“This was a nice suit.”

“Oh now I know you’re not really upset at all. You’ve had that suit for seven years.”

“They were new shoes, at least.”

“Do you need a shoulder to cry on?”

—

They’re definitely not working out of his basement anymore, but he supposes a congressional election is a different beast altogether. It’s different now, in a million different ways, small and large. It’s mostly the same team they’d cobbled together before, but Anders is noticeably absent.

The second Varric walks into the office he’s assaulted by a solid object he realizes belatedly is Isabela. “Nice to see you too, Isabela.” She kisses his head loudly, and gives him a noogie. “Fucking seriously?” he groans.

“Hawke said she convinced you but I didn’t believe her.” Varric pulls away from her, and she whistles. “Nice suit, hot shot. Come on, we’ll introduce you to the newbies.”

—

Varric does mornings with Hawke, afternoons with Lavellan, and nights with whoever needs him more. It mostly works out, if he doesn’t think about how much Cassandra wants to kill him with her glare.

—

Varric spends a long time looking at himself that night. He likes to pretend he’s not a loyal guy, but even he can admit once he commits to something he doesn’t really let go. The thing is, Varric used to think everyone stood in the shadow of Bianca. It took him a while, but he’s realizing it’s Hawke he’s been measuring everyone against for a long time, probably since he met her. He doesn’t even think it took her a month to become the most important person in his life.

Bianca—and him and Bianca—had meant everything to him. They’d loved each other since they were teenagers, married straight out of high school and pissed both their parents off in the process. The most peaceful, idyllic years of his life were with her, through college, law school, and the few years after.

When he’d met Hawke, almost a decade ago and in completely different places, it’d been a year after Bianca died.

He fiddles with his wedding band. He still wears it even now.

Hawke was a force of nature, and she managed to draw everyone into her path. When she decided to run for mayor, when she said “Varric, I can’t do this without you,” it was as simple as breathing that he’d join her. Just how it’s just as simple that he joins her now.

The first Hawke campaign felt unstoppable. It was his first foray into politics, and was meant to be his last. He’d been a lawyer, uninterested in politics except for how it affected the people he defended. Hawke had changed all of that for him, convinced him enough that he became both campaign manager and speech writer. If her mayoral campaign felt unstoppable, her gubernatorial election felt inevitable. Late nights and endless days were all worth it. It still shocks him how it all fell apart so quickly.

Varric meant it when he said he wasn’t abandoning Lavellan. He’s working unsustainable hours really, but he’d forgotten, for years, what it was like to feel like you were making a difference. Varric had been fighting on the ground level, against injustice as it happened, but he’d forgotten that politics could make a positive change that made it so injustice never happened in the first place. Hawke used to call him an idealist with a mocking smile, as if she’s not the one representing all these ideals.

Varric ends up fiddling with his wedding band. He’ll never stop loving Bianca, never want to forget their time together, but he’s pretty sure she’d forgive him moving on. He takes off his wedding ring, considers the tan for a brief moment, before leaving the ring on the bathroom counter.

—

Being around Hawke again is the eye of a hurricane, the burst of lightning before a clap of thunder, and every other metaphor he’s crammed into the half finished memoir he doesn’t plan on releasing for another twenty years.

Hawke snaps her fingers in front of Varric’s face. “Stop _staring_ at me,” she moans. “I know you’re composing romantic poetry in your head, and I urge you to think twice about this terrible infidelity.” They’re drinking in her kitchen, rum instead of beer, because the race has gotten to its most exhausting.

“What even rhymes with Marian?” Varric asks.

“Ew, when did you learn my first name?” Hawke breezes on past his rolled eyes, “Tons of things rhyme with Hawke. Mock, for one, _talk_ , lock. That’s worth at least a sonnet. _I’m_ worth at least a sonnet.”

He raises his eyebrows. “Do you want that on your desk by tomorrow morning?” He could definitely figure out something.

“ _Varric_ , that defeats the whole purpose. Infidelity, remember?” She waves her empty shot glass in his face. “Refill me, bartender.”

—

Varric corners her one night later that week in her office, when they’ve both been working late.

“Hawke, before you pull out the shot glasses, this is definitely a conversation we should have sober.”

“No shot glasses? What’s any conversation without being a little tipsy, honestly, I’m sure I’ve been a little drunk the past two—” Hawke stops suddenly. “You took off your wedding ring.”

“Ah,” Varric says, scratching the back of his neck with his left hand. “Nothing gets past you.”

“Finally getting back on the horse, I see, it’s about time, really. I was getting worried about your, ah, little friend.”

“That’s actually what I wanted to talk to you about.”

“You wanted to talk to me about your dick?”

“Hawke.”

“That was a little crass, you’re right. Bianca wouldn’t appreciate it. You wanted to talk to me about your cock?”

“ _Hawke_. You did it again. You keep acting like Bianca’s not dead.”

“I—” Hawke says eloquently. “I suppose I have been.”

“She’s been dead longer than I’ve known you,” Varric says.

“Does it—bother you that I talk about her?”

“No, but she’s been dead for a long time, and I’m pretty sure I’ve been halfway in love with you for a long time too.”

He knows what he wants Hawke to say, he knows what she’d say if this were one of those books he’s never had time to write, but he has no idea what she’s actually going to say.

Hawke starts laughing. Not what Varric expected, but completely Hawke. It doesn’t exactly help his confidence though. “I see! Isabela told you? _Not_ Isabela? Merrill, then, of course it was Merrill.” His face is still completely blank, he doesn’t know what she’s going on about at all, but it feels like a punch line. “Fenris! Really, that scoundrel. _Aveline_? Aveline told you, huh. Well, someone certainly gave you the impression that I have,” she waves a hand that could mean anything, “a _thing_ for you, which is of course completely preposterous as I don’t have feelings for anyone but myself. And Carver. Strike that. Just myself.”

“You have a thing for me?” is all Varric can possibly try to take from that.

“A _small_ thing. Hardly worth talking about.”

“Tell me if this isn’t okay,” he says, before kissing her. Hawke’s lips are chapped, he knows she bites them when she’s nervous, but it’s still perfect somehow. “Do you want me to actually write you that romantic poetry? I would.”

“I bet you can’t find anything to rhyme with Marian,” she says, before kissing him back, much rougher than the way he kissed her.

Still perfect.

—

They draw quite the fuss when Varric shows up to Lavellan’s Inauguration with newly minted Congresswoman Marian Hawke at his side.

“Do you need to hold my hand?” Hawke whispers when Lavellan goes up to begin her Inaugural speech. “I know it must be emotional for a narcissist like yourself.”

“Sorry who cried when I read them ‘An Ode to Marian’?”

“ _You_ did,” Hawke snorts.

He takes her hand anyway.

—

They mostly stick to the edges of the after party, though they both keep getting sucked into conversation by various people. Hawke keeps running into other congressmen and senators who want to talk to her, and Varric gets pulled aside to drink more champagne with Dorian and Sera.

By the time he and Hawke end up anywhere near each other again, they’re both smashed, though he thinks he’s drunker than she is.

“I’m really done with politics after this,” Varric tells her.

Hawke laughs at him rudely. “I wouldn’t bet on that.” She kisses him, to soften the blow. Varric preens.

“Whatever we do,” Varric says, “we’re in it together.”


End file.
